


Clowns

by kikabennet



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Cute Kids, First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:32:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5003155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikabennet/pseuds/kikabennet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slightly different take on how the Joker and Harleen Quinzel first met. After waking up in the morgue, Jerome Valeska broke into the first house he came to, and found a six-year-old Harleen Quinzel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My very first Gotham fic and I'm so nervous I could throw up. I hope you enjoy it!

**Clowns**

 

**Author's note:** My very first Gotham fanfiction, and I'm terrified that everything is wrong and Jerome is extremely out of character, so just be gentle and don't stab me in the neck. Enjoy!

 

Jerome always knew Theo Galavan was manipulating him. Of course, he didn't know getting stabbed in the neck was in order-at least so early, but he did know Galavan never intended for him to get a higher status than himself. Jerome didn't trust most adults anyway. Adults were dirty, they were liars. Sure, Jerome was a cold-blooded killer, but he was honest about it.

Now here he was, in the Gotham city morgue. Very soon someone would be sent to cut him open, take him apart. Moving around with a gaping, bleeding neck wound was not easy, and being quiet in a room full of mostly metal was even trickier, and to top it off he was naked.

There was a single lab coat hanging on an open door that appeared to lead to a washroom of sorts, so Jerome wrapped himself in it. He also found a pair of thick glasses sitting on the counter of the washroom-one of the lens had popped out, but oh well, so he put those on as well. His hair. That was going to be a problem. Not only was his face easily recognizable from the latest commotion and what he assumed after rousing in a drawer-his apparent death, but he had distinguishable, bright copper hair. And he was in a police station.

He found a white towel and wrapped it around his head, and moved to the door that led out-he hoped. It had to be late because the station only had a handful of staff moving around, and none of them seemed to be rushing. One officer bumped into him and muttered, “Sorry, Ma'am” before scurrying off.

Ma'am? Jerome was not a ma'am, but he figured hunched over in the too-big coat and head wrap that one could mistake him for an old woman, especially with the glasses.

He couldn't believe he made it out of the station, but when the crisp night air hit his face, he stood a little taller. The station, unfortunately, was located in the heart of the city, so the nightlife outside the building was a bit more active. Some stared at him, especially his bare feet, so he started spouting things like “Open your eyes! The end is near!” like so many of Gotham's mentally ill and homeless did, and that made people turn away.

Jerome knew he had to find somewhere to hide, gather his strength and make a plan. He could feel his neck leaking more blood, and his legs were chilly. Not to mention he couldn't keep mentally reminding himself that he wasn't wearing underwear and the lab coat didn't zip or button.

He wandered about two blocks, occasionally screaming about Nazis or the apocalypse to make gawkers look away and mind their own business. It was then that he came across the first home he saw, and to his luck, no cars parked in the large driveway.

It was a luxurious, two-story home with a well-groomed yard and decorative statues out front. It was the kind of place Jerome always wondered had he grew up in a decent home, not a traveling band of drug addicts, alcoholics and rapists, if he would be different.

He broke the window on the left side of the bottom story, not facing the street and partially hidden by large hedges, and climbed inside, saying “ooowwwwww...” as he did so because of his wound.

He rolled over the ledge and fell onto the tile floor of what appeared to be a kitchen, and lay on his back for a few seconds to catch his breath. He realized he was not alone.

“Yeah, I'm here for the next few days,” someone said-not too far away. “I was thinking of throwing a killer party-do you think Garret would come? I know! Right?”

Jerome got to his feet, a bit unsteadily and moved around the kitchen opening cabinets and drawers until he found what he was looking for. Leaning against the granite counter top, he waited patiently for whoever was talking to enter-noting the voice getting closer.

A young woman, possibly a teenage girl walked in, holding a phone to her ear. She was definitely the kind of girl who would never have dated a train-wreck traveling circus monkey like Jerome. Her wavy black hair and heavy makeup was enough evidence, but she was wearing a top that was too snug, and cotton shorts that were too loose. She looked like his whorish mother-always ready to attract some man into her sanctuary-Jerome's sanctuary too- who would eventually beat her, or worse, get drunk or high with her and beat _him_.

Looking at her made the hairs on his arm stand up, and when she saw him, she dropped her flip-phone and it shattered into big pieces on the floor. 

“Hi, do you have a moment to hear about our lord and savior, Jesus Christ?” Jerome greeted with fake innocence.

“Who are you?” The girl asked, sounding more disgusted than shocked. “How did you get in here?”

Jerome gave her a 'really?' kind of look and purposely moved one of his bare feet around in the broken glass. 

“Are you going to rape me?” The girl gasped out, suddenly aware of her cleavage and long legs. She took a step back.

Jerome moved forward, pulling the knife from behind his back.

“Isn't that a little forward?” He asked. “And no, because you're really not my type.”

The girl's eyes were stuck on the knife. Jerome was becoming woozy with blood loss, so he wasted no time in ending her. It hurt to follow her to the floor to get those last few blows, and when he stood back up, he felt a sharp pain in his neck.

Stomping over her body, he made his way out of the kitchen and into the living room where he collapsed onto the wrap around and sofa. 

He didn't know how long he'd been passed out, or if he'd even really lost consciousness, but the next thing he knew, he awoke to see a figure standing between the living room and kitchen. He sat up and realized that it was a child. A little girl with blonde hair wearing a sweater, jeans, two different colored socks. She looked at him after staring into the kitchen.

“She was mean to me,” she said.

Jerome pulled the coat more tightly around himself. He may have been a serial murderer, but he was not about to perv himself onto some little kid. He liked kids. They had reasons to be little assholes, unlike adults. Kids didn't know enough about anything yet to really have accountability. 

“She burned me with a match,” the girl said, raising up her sweater sleeve to show him. “See? And she hit me, and screamed at me, and called me names.”

Jerome awkwardly shrugged his good shoulder and scoffed. “Mothers, huh?”

“She's not my mother,” the little girl said. “She's my nanny.”

This made Jerome wary. Would her parents be home soon? He still wasn't up to par and he was still barefoot and in a flimsy lab coat. Killing two more adults in his condition wouldn't be easy.

“Why did you kill her?” The little girl asked, sitting cross legged on the floor, playing with some lint on her red sock. 

“I didn't like the way she looked,” Jerome answered truthfully. 

“You're bleeding,” the girl said. “We have a first aid kit in the bathroom.”

“When do your parents get home from work?” Jerome asked.

“They're in England,” She replied simply. “For a week. Lydia was supposed to take care of me.”

England. A week. This didn't sound so bad, not bad at all. 

“I'm going to turn seven in two days,” the little girl said. “It's my birthday on Monday.”

“Happy birthday,” Jerome deadpanned, collapsing again. If this kid wasn't freaking out, he didn't have to kill her just yet. 

She disappeared and reappeared with a large, bulky first aid kit. Jerome watched her with one eye open as she dumped it out on the floor and began to look through the contents.

“A Band Aid would be too small,” she mused. “There's gauze and tape, though.”

Jerome wordlessly stuck out his arm and wriggled his fingers. The little girl put these items in his hand. 

“Maybe you can wear some of Daddy's clothes,” she said. “They might fit you.”

“Right now, Tinkerbell,” Jerome said. “I just need a nap. Could you be a big girl for me and not call the cops and tell them about Mary Poppins in the kitchen?”

The little girl nodded and said, “I'll get you a blanket.”

Before Jerome could say anything, she disappeared again and reappeared with a large quilt and clumsily threw it on top of him. 

“What's your name anyway, Doc?” Jerome asked, feeling his voice starting to slur from sleep.

“Harleen,” the girl said. “What's yours?”

“...Jerome...”

He awoke again some time later and felt an uncomfortable stiffness in his neck. He reached to touch his wound only to find it was covered with much more gauze and tape than necessary. Also, on the floor near the couch, was a box of cereal, a bowl, a spoon, and a carton of milk. On top of the quilt near his feet was a tshirt, and a pair of sweat pants that both looked like they'd be a little too big, but he stood up and changed into them anyway.

Harleen was nowhere in sight, and he went into the kitchen since he knew that's where she'd gotten the food. The nanny was gone. A side door that led to what he assumed was the garage, was partially open and there was a thick blood trail leading from where the corpse had been into it. 

“I moved her,” Harleen said, making him almost jump. “I kept tripping over her.”

Was this kid really that messed up? Her nanny was dead on the floor and some weird guy was on her couch bleeding to death and she simply drug a corpse into the garage and fixed him a bowl of cereal? Jerome thought that he was the only one like that.

“She tried to drown me one time,” she said, as if she were reading his mind. “In the pool. She did that because I wouldn't stop crying because I wanted to go inside, but she didn't. She threw me in the deep end and told me if I drowned she would tell my parents it was an accident.”

Jerome never felt anything for anybody. He never had, not since he was very young and used to pretend that his mother would love him-really love him- if he tried hard enough. At what he didn't know, but that was closest he'd ever gotten to it. A wave of empathy, however, washed through him, and he decided that he would not kill Harleen if he didn't have to. 

“Did you eat your cereal?” She asked him.

“I'm hungry for something more solid than cereal,” Jerome said, examining the contents of the fridge. A lot of takeout. A lot of booze. Not much else. He took a random carton of Chinese food and sniffed inside the box curiously. He then plunked it into the microwave above the stove and waited for it to heat. 

“Where did you come from?” Harleen asked, sitting down at the table. 

“The circus,” Jerome answered, truthfully enough. “Most recently, a magic show. I was the magician.”

“A magician?” Harleen smiled for the first time since he'd met her. “You can do magic?”

Jerome took a dish cloth hanging from a rack above the sink and a fake flower from a vase on the table. He performed the trick he'd learned for the Children's Hospital event, and Harleen laughed.

“Wow,” she said. “That's so neat.”

Jerome couldn't help but smile back, and he raised his eyebrows at her and gave her a wink. He removed the takeout box from the microwave and sat down at the table to eat. Harleen watched him.

“You hungry?” He asked.

“I ate cereal,” she said.

“You like shrimp?” He held up a shrimp between two chopsticks. 

Harleen shrugged.

“You don't know?” Jerome scoffed softly.

Harleen shook her head.

“Open,” Jerome commanded, leaning across the table with his chopsticks. Harleen complied and he popped it into her mouth, making a funny noise. She laughed again, covering her mouth so the shrimp would not fall out. 

“Good?” He asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “It's good.”

After he ate, Jerome asked Harleen where the shower was. By this time, he was not worried at all about her calling the police. He took a shower and correctly doctored himself in the bathroom and then changed back into the tshirt and sweats. Harleen was downstairs on the couch, just sitting. Not watching television, not playing with any toys. She seemed delighted to see him. 

“Tell me about the circus,” she asked.

“What do you know about the circus?” Jerome asked her teasingly.

“The clowns,” she said. “I like clowns.”

“Most people are scared of clowns,” Jerome pointed out.

Harleen shrugged and said, “It' okay to like scary things.”

Jerome told her about the circus-leaving out all of the brutal behind-the-scenes parts, and Harleen laughed and asked questions and clapped like she was really there, watching all of it happen before her eyes. Even if the nanny was the violent one, Jerome knew her parents could have not been that much better because she had failed to say anything about them aside from the fact that they were in England. 

“Maybe your parents will take you someday,” he said.

“I don't see them much,” Harleen told him. “Mostly just nannies.”

Jerome stared into space, wondering if it was more bizarre that he'd woken up in a morgue or that he was spending time with a six year old talking about the circus.

“You said your birthday was in two days?” He asked.

“Yeah.” Harleen nodded. 

“We should make a cake,” Jerome said, grinning. He was starting to feel like his old self, only without the desire to kill. Just be spontaneous.

“I don't know how to make a cake,” Harleen said, but followed him into the kitchen anyway.

They didn't actually make a cake, but unwrapped almost the whole box of Hostess cupcakes and fashioned them into a tower on a plate and then covered that with whipped cream from a spray can. They took turns spraying whipped cream all over the place, and then dug into the 'cake' while Jerome sang her 'Happy Birthday' through a mouthful of cupcake and whipped cream. 

After that, he found an old record player in the living room and put on a snazzy record that one could dance to. Or two. 

He and Harleen began dancing, and then he picked her up and began dancing her all over the house, making her squeal with laughter. He dramatically dipped her, spun her around, and swayed side to side, despite the agonizing pain in his shoulder. 

After the record screeched to a stop, he collapsed on the floor, panting, Harleen on top of him. 

“This was the best birthday I've ever had,” she told him. 

They fell asleep like that, and it was a few hours later when Jerome sneaked away, back through the window he came. He left Harleen on the floor, but covered her with the quilt. He still didn't think he could ever love, but maybe he could say he had positive feelings about the strange little host he'd met this evening. He wondered if he'd ever see her again, which was unlikely, but if he'd woken up in a morgue and just happened to break into  _her_ home of all places, maybe he would. Of course, not under the identity of Jerome. Jerome Valeska was dead. He'd have to come up with a new identity. As he walked down the sidewalk, knife concealed of the jacket he'd taken from the house, he remembered how excited Harleen had gotten when he told her about the clowns. 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

“Mrs. White called me today,” Mrs. Quinzel said, biting into a green bean. “She said you haven't invited Kristen to the party yet so I invited her.”

Harleen Quinzel pushed her own food around her plate, slumping slightly. She didn't even want a party, especially one with Kristen White involved.

“I told you to invite her,” her mother said. “Don't you remember that her mother is the head of the PTA?”

She sipped at her wine, scoffing slightly, and then took a few long, thirsty gulps.

“God knows we could use all the light on this family we can,” she said. “People still talk, you know. About Lydia.”

Lydia the nanny that had been found stabbed fourteen times in the Quinzel's garage. Harleen said nothing. For the past seven years, she'd told law officials and psychiatrists over and over that a grown man with dark hair had broke in and murdered her. The man in her story that she was very careful not to change had no name.

“I know it's not your fault,” her mother said quickly. “I can't imagine what kind of trauma you went through. I'm so glad you don't remember.”

“I was asleep,” Her daughter lied. “I only woke up when Lydia screamed.”

“I know, Dear,” Mrs. Quinzel said, and sighed deeply. “It's just...people talk about _you_.” 

Harleen pushed her plate away. She knew where this conversation was going. Her parents had taken her to numerous therapists thinking her shyness and lack of friends was due to Lydia's murder, but Harleen just wasn't into boys and makeup and pop stars the way her middle school peers were. 

“This party will finally turn things around,” her mother continued, pouring herself another glass of wine. “You and Kristen White will be best friends, and you'll just shoot up the popularity ladder with her!”

“Mom-”

“It's not up for discussion!” Her mother said sharply, and then looked at the clock. “I wonder where your father is.”

It was obvious that Mr. Quinzel was having an affair-his escape from all of the whispers about their family. He would come home and sit on his phone texting, usually alone in his study, and have random 'meetings' at different times throughout the week that seemed to follow no particular pattern. Mrs. Quinzel knew this-she'd already found a pair of panties in the glove compartment of his car, but she liked to pretend her husband was faithful just like she pretended her daughter had potential to be the kind of girl she was when she was young.

 

“Your mother invited me to your dumb party,” Kristen White said the next morning as Harleen was walking to one of her classes. “She actually rented out an ice cream shop? Does she think we're eight?”  
Some of Kristen's friends smiled and exchanged looks behind her.

“You don't have to go,” Harleen said nervously, wishing she was confident enough to sound casual or even uninterested. She felt her cheeks growing hot, however, and she stared at the toes of her sneakers.

“My mom is making me go,” Kristen said. “Everyone feels sorry for you because your nanny was murdered and I'm still not so sure you didn't do it, but that's besides point. You're a freak, Harleen. You draw creepy clown pictures on the back of your papers and you weird everyone out.”

“Your name should be Whoreleen,” one of her cronies spoke up and all three of them laughed.

“I have to go to class,” Harleen said, moving past them, her voice small and scratchy. 

“Give me this!” Kristen said, ripping her folder right out of her arms.

“Give that back!” Harleen all but shrieked.

Kristen held it away from her and opened it up. It was filled with sketches of scary looking clowns doing terrible things. Stabbing people, beating them with baseball bats.

“What the hell is this?” Kristen demanded, throwing it at the ground like it was hot. “You're a freak, Quinzel!”

Harleen took her folded and scurried off to the sanctuary of her classroom. Her heart was racing and her cheeks were flaming. If only she could explain her art to others. The victims in her sketches weren't entirely victims. In her head, they had wronged others in some way. They had cheated on their spouses, ignored their children, tried to murder little girls they were supposed to care about when the parents were away. 

 

The party was held at Compton's Ice Cream-which Mrs. Quinzel had rented out for three hours. Out of the twenty some-odd girls that were invited, only twelve showed up, and Harleen knew their mothers had forced them. They clustered together, sipping ice cream sodas and looking at their phones while the player piano chimed loudly. 

Harleen was wearing a party dress her mother had bought just for the occasion, and a headband. She missed her plain jean jacket with the hole in the pocket and jeans and sneakers. She missed her ponytail. Harleen liked to hide. In this dress, she felt so colorful and open.

Some boys showed up too, and the parents had vanished. Like Mrs. Quinzel, Harleen guessed, a lot of them liked to think of themselves as 'cool' and giving their tweens privacy made that possible. 

“I invited some guys to make your party a little more interesting,” Kristen said, approaching Harleen. “Aren't they cute? Wyatt is on the football team.”

Harleen tried her best to smile, her ice cream dripping out of its cone and down her fist like she was a little kid. She hurried to throw it away in the trash can. 

“I'm going to the bathroom,” she told Kristen. “I'll be right back.”

As she washed her hands in the one-toilet stall, she heard the door open.

“Oh, I'm in here!” She called in a small voice, but that did not stop whoever was coming in. 

Kristen walked in, followed by her friends, two of the boys, and most of the party guests stood in the doorway. They all had Cheshire Cat-esque smiles on their faces.

Harleen dried her hands off with a paper towel, staring at them.

“We have a game we want to play for the birthday girl,” Kristen said with fake cheerfulness. 

“What game?” Harleen asked.

“It's called Whoreleen Quinzel's a freak and we're going to show the boys her underwear,” Kristen said, and with the snap of her fingers, two of her friends grabbed Harleen by the arms. 

“Wait? What? Stop!” Harleen demanded. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

“Your creepy artwork,” Kristen said, getting in her face. “Proves that you're a freak.”

Harleen started to cry, her face heating as a third girl picked up her dress and started to fan it like a parachute. 

“Whoreleen!” They chanted. 

“I would say let's pull down her top to see if she stuffs,” Kristen said. “But she doesn't have any boobs to begin with.”

“Tell us why you draw such morbid pictures, Whoreleen,” She continued. “Why you've been obsessed with clowns since the second grade! Don't you think this is funny? Clowns show their underwear all the time!”

“Eww, her nose is running!” One of the other girls laughed. “Get her a Kleenex!”

Another girl ran one of the brown, scratchy paper towels across her face and pinched her nose.

“Honk honk!” She said, and everyone roared with laughter. 

Harleen sobbed miserably-the eye makeup her mother had insisted on to bring out her 'blue' starting to run. 

“Leave me alone,” she begged.

Suddenly, everyone stopped when gunfire sounded. A couple of the girls screamed. The two holding onto Harleen immediately let go. A path of sorts cleared as the party-goers scattered to hide under tables and behind the service counter. Mr. Compton lay across the ice cream selection case-dead. Lines of red dripped down the case and onto the floor. 

“Happy birthday to you,” someone sang slowly, and Harleen could see as everyone moved away from her that it was a man in a green suit without a jacket-the sleeve rolled up, purple dress vest, and bow tie. His face was painted white and his eyes were ridden by black rings. He was wearing bright red lipstick-the kind her mother wore, only more exaggerated into a smile. His hair was sprayed green with cheap costume dye.

“Happy birthday to you,” he continued. “Happy birthday, dear...” he fired his gun a second time, making everyone shriek. “Who's the birthday girl?”

He had some men with him-their faces painted black and white. One of the girls pointed shakily towards the open restroom. 

“Thanks, Doll,” The man said, and then shot the girl-hitting her in the arm. “By the way, snitches get stitches.”

Harleen was still on the floor, tear-stained and trembling when he approached her and motioned with his gun for her to stand. She stood. 

“Happy birthday, dear...” he said in a sing-song voice, raising his eyebrows indicating for her to tell him.

She stared at him, frightened for a moment, and then she stopped shaking. 

“What's your name, Tinkerbell?” He asked again, pointing the barrel of his weapon against her forehead. 

Somebody made a break for the door and he fired in that direction. He was startled slightly when he felt the girl's pinky and ring finger brush against his gloved hand. He looked at her, and she was staring right into his face, completely unafraid, but there was some kind of emotion there. 

“Jerome?” She asked in a half-whisper.

His heart fell into his stomach and his memory dived into those big blue eyes. She was the little girl from the night...

“Cops!” One of his henchmen interrupted. 

“Change of plans!” The lead clown said, grabbing Harleen against him. “We're taking a hostage!”

They went out the back, and loaded into a stolen van, the lead clown laughing maniacally as he threw random explosives out of the van as police cars chased them. He still had a hold on Harleen. 

 

Harleen sat on the bed in the elaborately decorated suite-she assumed they were in a hotel- and watched as Jerome washed off his clown makeup at the sink that connected the bedroom and washroom. Inside the washroom was another sink and large tub. He stared back at her in the mirror, half of the clown mask washed away. 

“I'll be damned,” he chuckled, shaking his head as he ducked back down to wash off the rest. “Little Harleen Qunizel. How old are you now, Kid?”

“I just turned fourteen,” she said. “What were you doing at Compton's?”

“They forgot to hire a clown for your party,” he said, toweling his face dry. 

“Why did you take me?” She asked, lying on her stomach, propping her head up in her hands. 

“Don't you wanna catch up?” Jerome asked, shrugging his shoulder. “Besides, your parents are loaded, right? Good ransom.”

“They don't want me,” Harleen told him. “That's why I'm wearing this dumb dress and had that dumb party. My mom thinks if I'm somebody else she can actually like me.”

“That is a dumb dress,” Jerome agreed. “But I'm sure your mother loves you enough to fork over some kind of cash.”

“What have you been doing?” Harleen wanted to know. “I...I missed you, Jerome.”

“I'm the Joker now,” he replied. “Trying to get my name out there. I want to be a household name. Something kids get scared of on Halloween.”

He sat down on the bed beside her to take off his shoes. He stopped in mid-shoe removal and said, “I missed you too, Kid.”

He turned on the television to create some noise and told Harleen, “I'm gonna hit the shower. You good there?”

“Yeah.” Harleen nodded. 

As he showered, Harleen stared at the random cartoons he'd put on, but her mind was a million miles away. She kept replaying the afternoon's events in her head, and even though she'd seen one of her classmates get shot and a man's corpse dripping with blood, it was what Kristen did that ate at her. Her cheeks burned at the thought of everyone laughing at her, the girls flapping her dress up and down. 

A few unexpected tears fell down her cheeks and like a dam, the rest burst through and she was crying again. 

Jerome came out of the bathroom in a t-shirt, sweats, and red hair. Just like the last time she saw him, only these clothes fit him properly because they did not belong to her husky father. 

“You alright, Kiddo?” He asked, sounding almost awkward. 

Harleen nodded furiously, refusing to look at him.

“You miss your family or-”

“I'm a freak!” Harleen blurted out. “Nobody likes me! My own parents don't like me! And Kristen and all those other girls are so horrible to me. I hate them!”

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed, embarrassed for crying around Jerome like that. He would probably ditch the hostage idea and throw her out for being a nuisance. When she uncovered her face, Jerome was standing a few feet away, cleaning his pistol with a cloth. 

“It's not all bad being a freak,” he said with a shrug. “And parents? Psh. Who needs 'em? Bossy, nagging trilobites. That's why I got rid of mine. Out with the old, in with the new.”

“Can I use your shower?” Harleen asked. 

After she showered, Harleen realized the only clothes she had was the party dress-speckled in blood. She opened the door a crack and it didn't want to budge. At the door on the floor was a folded tshirt and pair of cotton boxer shorts. 

“They should fit you,” Jerome said from the bed casually. 

They did fit, even if they were too big, but Harleen felt much better wearing them. She exited the bathroom and asked, “Where are we?”

“The swankiest hotel in Gotham,” Jerome said, smiling. “Used a dead guy's credit card to get in. As far as the no-brainers at the GCPD know, he's traveling the world.”

He pointed to a cart with food from room service that had been delivered while she was washing up. Sandwiches, pasta, meat, fruit, desserts...it must had cost a fortune. There were already a few used plates sitting around. Harleen ate on the nearby loveseat and it made her feel better. She fell asleep on the same loveseat, and awoke to the sound of the television being turned off. It was dark and Jerome was rolling over in the bed.

Jerome wasn't sure what to think when he felt Harleen dip into the space next to him, her small frame warm against his larger one. He didn't know if she knew about sex yet, or if she was already having sex or what girls thought about sex in general, but he wondered if he should go ahead and let her know that sex did not interest him in any way. His blood heated when he spilled it out of others. 

“Kid...” he said quietly. 

“Mmhmm?”

“You, uh, sleepin' here?”

“Is that okay?”

Jerome shrugged and yawned. “Yeah, that's okay.”

“Jerome?”

“Mm.”

“I don't want to go home.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy! I welcome all feedback-both positive and negative, and please forgive my lack of canon.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

Jerome began to feel odd about his relationship with Harleen. She had been with him and his posse for nearly three weeks now, traveling with them from hotel to loft to warehouse. Accepting her request to not to return home, Jerome had taken her blood-spattered dress from the ice cream parlor heist and dumped it in an open lot along with a few strands of her hair and one of her shoes.

Some of his goons had been sent to go out and get her new clothes after she'd been wearing the same cotton shorts and t-shirt for days, but they returned with mismatched items that were all too long and too loose for her.

Jerome finally took her himself-two towns over from Gotham, and waited outside while she ran into a thrift shop and bought necessary clothing articles with stolen cash. Even though the clothes were much less fancy and name brand than she was used to, Jerome would catch her in the bathroom standing on the edge of the tub looking at herself in the mirror, absolutely delighted.

Harleen slept in the bed with him every night and hardly left his side except for when the gang went on a crime spree and she was left alone in the hotel room or back of a stolen van.

One day, during a bank heist, she tried to go inside with them. One hand on the van door, Jerome pressed his other hand-holding a pistol-sideways against her.

“Not you, Tink,” he said, and hopped out of the van, slamming the door behind him.

A few minutes later, one of the goons returned and climbed into the van. Harleen, from her spot on the floor in the very back (so she could see the bank directly), stared at him as he shut the door behind him.

“Boss thinks you might try and follow us in,” he said simply, relaxing in the seat in front of her.

Harleen said nothing. She hardly ever talked to the others and was practically glued to Jerome and he did most of the talking anyway.

The goon turned his head to glance back at her. He was tall and overweight with a shaved head and tattoos and reeked of body odor. Most of them usually did-even Jerome until he showered and then he always smelled nice.

“Come up here,” he coaxed. “Sit with your Uncle Mumbles.”

Harleen did as she was told, climbing over the seat to sit beside him.

Mumbles breathed heavily through his mouth, staring into space, his tongue hanging out a little. He was absolutely revolting. Harleen shifted uncomfortably beside him.

“Miss your folks?” He asked.

“No,” Harleen said, and meant it.

She tensed slightly when he patted her leg.

“You're a good kid,” he said and then rubbed his hand up and down her jean-clad thigh.

Harleen stiffened as his hand moved to her inner thigh, resting there. She looked up at his face and he grinned.

“You're pretty,” he said, caressing the inside of her thigh with his finger tips. “So pretty.”

Harleen moved away from him then, but he suddenly got to one knee and that made him seem even bigger in the cramped space of the van. He leaned over her.

“Come on, Baby doll,” he said. “Nobody has to know.”

Harleen went for the door handle then, but he grabbed a fist full of her blonde hair, making her scream. When she screamed, it seemed to excite him and hurried to move partially on top of her-his knee between her legs.

“Everyone knows I was put away for murder,” he said. “But the girls I murdered-they were like you. I like them young and pretty, and I always made sure to make them feel special before I offed 'em.”

Harleen struggled beneath him, trying her best to push her legs back together. She began to cry when he used his meaty hands to force her knees apart.

“Shh,” he said. “It'll feel so good, Baby doll, I promise.”

“Get off of me!” Harleen sobbed, her tiny hands trying to fight his large ones.

The sound of the van door opening startling Mumbles and Harleen could see the glint of a knife as it struck him between the shoulder blades. He fell practically on top of her and she saw Jerome standing over him, a frown on his face but under the dark eye makeup, she saw more than just a frown. She saw anger. He stabbed Mumbles again, and again, again.

“Touch my kid!” He snarled, removing the knife with some force it was in so deep and then planting it in a new spot.

“Boss, please!” Mumbles gasped out, coughing up some blood.

“Please what?” Jerome asked. “Please stab you more? Certainly. Here goes!” He stabbed him again in a wound he already had.

“You're boning the bitch every night!” Mumbles choked. “What difference does it make?”

Jerome rolled him over and swiftly put the knife in his face.

“What I do with her,” he said, removing the knife and sticking his thumb in the wound, making Mumbles cry out. “Is my business. Nobody touches her.”

The others arrived shortly, looking worried and confused at the sight before them, but they knew better than to say anything about it. They loaded into the van with the loot and were on their way. It was an awkward ride back to the warehouse with Mumbles bleeding all over the place and moaning. Jerome stared at him, trying to look bored or even mildly annoyed, but Harleen knew better.

“When we get back to the warehouse,” he said. “He dies.”

Harleen was still shaking, but not from Jerome. She wanted more than anything to hold onto him like a small child.

She didn't see Mumbles after they got back to the warehouse and she was forced to stay in the van yet again as they all dragged him away out of sight. After about twenty minutes, Jerome and the others got back in the van and headed for a loft. Once they were there, Harleen stayed on Jerome's heels as he barked orders to his cronies and made threatening phone calls to people she didn't know on a burner phone. He wasn't being his usual chipper self and was releasing anger in every direction, except hers.

Once they were in their room for the night and had both showered-Jerome with a clean face and red hair (the way she liked him), they settled down on the bed to watch television. Jerome looked at her and asked, “You okay?”

“Yes,” she said.

It was becoming routine for her that when Jerome shut off the television and the lights, that meant bedtime. Very rarely would she fall asleep before that, but it had happened once or twice. She watched as he got up to shut off the light and when he crawled back into bed, he said quietly, “I should have never sent him back outside.”

He rolled over onto his stomach. Harleen mirrored him, lying on her stomach, turning her head to look at him with her blue, blue eyes.

“I don't want to be Harleen anymore,” she said suddenly. “I want a new name, like how you're called the Joker now.”

“Bubbles,” he said flatly.

Harleen scoffed. “No.”

“Funky chicken.”

“ _No_.”

“Harlequin,” he said simply. 

“What's a Harley Quinn?” She asked, misunderstanding. 

“It's your new name, Kiddo,” Jerome said, and rolled onto his back, throwing his arms up dramatically into the air. “Ladies and gentlemen, presenting the Joker and his lovely assistant, Harley Quinn!”

Harleen laughed and tried it out under her breath, “Joker and Harley.”

They were silent after that, their breathing becoming slow and deep.

“Jerome?” Harleen whispered.

“Mm.”

“Jerome?”

“I said 'Mm'. Jesus.”

“I want to be part of the group too,” she said, snuggling up against him. “Okay?”

Jerome said nothing.

“Okay,” Harleen said in her best impression of him. It made him snort, even with his eyes closed. She smiled.

Jerome slept, but a half state of sleep. He kept circling back to how odd he felt about Harleen. He had never cared about anything in his life and never would-his mother had made sure of that with all of her beating and insulting, but he found himself protective of little Harleen, and part of that was wanting to keep her away from what he was, even if he loved what he was, but he wasn't sure if that's what he wanted for her. 

 

 

Almost two years later and she was still with them. Of course, now she was Harley. The name Harleen was dead. She was nearly sixteen, even though she looked fourteen, and ran around on heists with the boys. She'd actually developed into quite the sidekick. She was small enough to fit through tight spaces and was agile as all get out. 

Jerome had a new gang, a better gang, a whole underground kingdom even because the name Joker was a household name. He no longer needed to steal his victim's fuckpads or credit cards to get hotels. These things were handed to him now by criminals longing to be part of his group. 

Of course, once all was said and done and the makeup was washed away, he was Jerome again, and Harley liked him as Jerome. 

For her fifteenth birthday (her new official birthday being the day she was renamed), he'd carefully painted her face black and white, deep in concentration as he did so. Harley liked moments like that-the moments he was human. During crime sprees she would wear her hair in pigtails and black and white makeup. Her fourteenth birthday, she had felt vulnerable in her colorful dress, and now with a mask to hide her face, she didn't mind standing out so much.

“Jerome?” She asked one morning as she sat down with him to eat breakfast in the penthouse one morning. 

Jerome was sitting on the top of the table cross-legged in his pajama bottoms and tshirts, his red hair a mess.

“Mmhmm,” he said through a mouthful of cereal, checking something in the paper, most likely looking for himself.

“I want to kill someone,” Harley said, like she was asking if it was okay to borrow the car. 

“Who?” He asked, sounding bored.

“Well, no one in particular,” Harley said, moving to sit beside him. She pulled her hair into a ponytail, but let it go when she realized she didn't have a hair band on her. “I just feel like I should be doing it too.”

“Is this that thing they call peer pressure?” He asked with a serious face.

Harley smiled. “Come on.”

“Your first kill should be special,” Jerome said, getting off the table to drop his bowl in the sink. “It can't be just some nobody.”

“Yours was your mom, right?” Harley asked. 

“That was indeed very special,” he replied, grinning at her.

“Okay, well, there was this girl at my fourteenth birthday party,” Harley said.

“She stole your nail polish,” Jerome guessed. 

“She...” Harley felt her face flush, remembering how bad she still felt when Kristen and the others had showed everyone her underwear. “She did something really mean to me. She hated me.”

Jerome nodded. It made him boil to think that anyone could have been mean to his Harley. The kid was so sweet. 

“Why the sudden need to kill?” He asked.

“I just feel like I don't belong sometimes,” she admitted. “I mean, you take me along and everything, but you treat me so fragile.”

Jerome pulled her close to him by her arms, making her yelp and rubbed his nose against hers. She laughed through her teeth.

“That's because you're my sweet girl,” he said, playfully pretending to bite her. “Come on, you can help me test the new ball gags that came in. We're going to have a lot of fun with some stuffy, rich scumbags tonight.”

Harley pulled away from him, giving him sad eyes.

“Yeah, okay,” she said, and gave him a small smile. “Piggyback me?”

Jerome, who still towered over the petite Harley squatted down and hoisted her onto his back. She wrapped her hands around his neck. 

“All aboard to to torturetown,” he said, spinning in a little circle before half jogging to another room.

 

 

Harley loved the way Jerome handled himself. They'd abducted five of Gotham's snootiest do-gooders. Harley wasn't exactly sure what their titles were, but they were the kind of people her parents kissed up to. People who turned their noses down at everyone else. People who had probably made fun of other people's drawings when they were kids and humiliated them at their birthday parties and tried to get fresh with girls and vans and-

Before she knew what she was doing, Harley had taken a metal bat out of one of the newest goon's hands and swung it at one of the abductees, striking them half in the face, half on the side of the head. He cried out behind the ball gag and she dropped the bat. Jerome slowly looked at her. 

“Harley,” he said, like a father playfully scolding their adorable toddler. 

“I'll go back upstairs,” she said, losing her nerve, her face flushing. 

Jerome snapped his fingers at her and then gestured for her to come back. She came back and he put his hands on her slim shoulders.

“Do you really think you're ready to kill?” He asked, a hint of sadness in his eyes.

Harley nodded. He nodded too, and walked over to a table full of weapons and torture devices. 

“Take your pick, Kid,” he said.

Some of his goons exchanged sly smiles as Harley looked between all of the weapons. It almost felt like the pictures she'd drawn so long ago were coming to life. She picked up a handgun. 

“Good choice for a beginner,” Jerome said. 

Harley looked confused about what to do next, so Jerome took her by the shoulders and walked her over to the man she'd struck with a bat. The others cheered her on.

“Go, Harley!”

“Get it, Girl!”

“Yeah!”

Jerome motioned for them to be quiet. Harley stared right into the man's eyes as she fired the pistol, deliberately missing and the bullet hit the wall. She looked at Jerome and hurriedly put the gun in his hand, running out of the room. 

She ran to the room she shared with Jerome and hurriedly washed off her makeup and undid her pigtails. She then stripped down to her panties and changed into a tshirt and pajama bottoms and crawled into bed, covering her head with the covers. She heard Jerome come up sometime later, laughing and joking with some of his men, and he opened the door a crack and then closed it. She didn't see him again until he was climbing into bed beside her. 

“Harley?” He asked after several seconds of silence.

She hoped he would fall for her possum trick.

He sighed and brushed some of her blonde hair with his fingers.

“You're a good kid,” he murmured. “The best.”

To Be Continued...

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I just want to be clear that I'm straying away from all kinds of canon, but I want to.I'm sure I'd butcher any kind of canon related story I tried to do. This is more of an AU involving Jerome than the actual Joker. I really appreciate the kudos and feedback. Thank you so much!


End file.
